


to serve and protect

by badtemperedchocolate



Category: Bon Appétit Test Kitchen (Web Series)
Genre: AU, Buddy Cops, F/M, there's always another AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:47:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22357420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badtemperedchocolate/pseuds/badtemperedchocolate
Summary: Detective Leone gets a temporary partner.
Relationships: Brad Leone/Claire Saffitz
Comments: 20
Kudos: 116





	to serve and protect

**Author's Note:**

> Look, if you came here for a tightly-plotted, gritty crime drama, I should just tell you now that this is a simple tribute to TV cop shows. And also, you know. Brad and Claire. 
> 
> Anyway.
> 
> As always, this is 100% fiction.

Brad settles at his desk with a triumphant smile.

This is a fantastic day.

His lunch break was at the perfect time, the crowds were light, and he managed to get all the way over to his favorite deli. And so right now, he is holding the most perfect sandwich on the planet. Perfectly cured salami and rich prosciutto, spicy pepperoncini, a hint of giardiniera, creamy aioli, and fresh arugula, all stacked on fresh-baked garlic-and-herb ciabatta bread.

If there are sandwiches in heaven, they’re like this.

“Leone!”

Brad looks up from the glorious, perfectly-crafted culinary wonder in his hands to see the captain gesturing to him. “Sir?”

“Your temporary partner’s been approved.” Rick waves a hand at the elevator. “From upstairs. She’s on her way now.”

“I, uh – okay.”

He sets down his sandwich and wipes his hands hastily on a napkin just as the elevator doors open, and a petite, dark-haired woman steps out.

She seems to know who she’s looking for; she walks right up to him and offers her hand. “Brad Leone, right? I’m Claire Saffitz, from computer crime.”

Ah, so _this_ is the csaffitz from upstairs who’s been analyzing his digital evidence.

He’s not unhappy about it. She’s in computer crimes, so she’s definitely smart. “Nice to meet you, Saffitz.”

Her hand is small in his big paw, but her grip is firm, and despite the fact that she’s a full foot shorter than him, her eyes are keen and perceptive, her face bright. “Looking forward to working with you.”

“Likewise.” Brad looks around. Ooh. No extra desk. Well –

He drags a chair away from Delany’s desk – the kid will never miss it – and sets it up for her, next to his own desk. At least she’s got a place to sit.

“You can go ahead,” she says, gesturing to his sandwich. “Eat, please.”

“I don’t wanna be rude –”

“You’re not,” she assures him. “I ate earlier. And that looks delicious.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

He’s pretty sure he already likes her.

* * *

In between bites of that messy-but-mouthwatering sandwich, Brad explains the latest developments on the Rapoport case. She’s caught up on most of it; after the amount of computer records taken into evidence, her department had finally just agreed to temporarily partner her with the ranking detective on the case.

(“Homicide?” she’d asked Chris apprehensively. “Seriously?”

“Relax, Claire. They’re not nearly as scary as they seem.”)

Judging by the scruffy, blue-eyed giant sitting across from her, who seems to be completely smitten with his lunch, Chris might have been right.

“So you know he’s the guy?”

“Rapoport? Oh, hell yeah.” Brad wipes his mouth with a napkin and tosses it into the trashcan nearby. “He’s a real piece of work. He doesn’t do any of the dirty work, ya know? He just sits at the top and kinda oversees his little minions. But if we can nail him on this one, we got him.”

* * *

Once Detective Leone has finished his quality time with that sandwich, he walks her over to a rolling corkboard, which he has completely covered with papers and photos and notes.

“Wow.” Claire has to hide a grin. He really _is_ old-school. This is a classic murderboard. What is he, Lennie Briscoe? Evidence photos, handwritten notes, even print-outs of reports she’s sent him.

“This is just kinda what I always do,” he shrugs. “I like to see it all laid out at once, ya know? Like I can think about everything, all together.”

“It’s a little messy,” she points out.

“So was the crime scene.”

She stops short at that – she’s not used to getting sassed, quite frankly – but instead of the prickly, irritated manner she might have expected, his eyes are twinkling. Like he’s _enjoying_ this.

So she decides to be generous. “I guess you’re right.”

“I know you guys up in tech probably have fancier setups,” he concedes. “And that’s fine. I just – I like my system. It works for me.”

She could build him a digital setup. A user-friendly program where he could input all sorts of data, add links to relevant websites, attach multimedia files, never have to worry about running out of space.

But as he tapes up another photo, straightening it carefully, Claire decides: he’s right. He’s got a system he likes. It’s obviously working for him.

This isn’t her department, after all. And Claire knows she’s a control freak sometimes. But this isn’t her case to control.

“Okay.”

She grabs the next two photos and tacks them up beside him, and Brad grins at her. “Look at that! We’ll have you back in the Stone Age in no time.”

“Sure you will.”

Claire puts up one more and reaches up to fix a crooked label, and finds Brad watching her curiously. “What?”

“Are you left-handed?”

She looks down reflexively. “Oh – yeah, I am.”

“Wow, a southpaw.” Brad narrows his eyes. “You know, I hear left-handed people are evil sometimes.”

Claire shrugs. “I get grumpy when I’m hungry.”

“Hmm. Good to know.”

* * *

They’ve been staring at the board for a while, but they’re stuck. It’s a web of pictures and notes and words and pushpins and it’s starting to look like some giant mess of conspiracy theories. Claire sighs. “We’re missing something.”

Brad nods slowly, swiveling in his chair for the millionth time, until she grabs the arm to stop him. She’s getting dizzy.

“We need my secret weapon,” he says finally.

“What’s that?”

By way of answer, he pulls open one of his desk drawers and starts digging through the contents. It’s messy.

(Claire decides not to look. She might need to fix it.)

“I _know_ I still – ah, here we are!”

He holds up a hand triumphantly, and Claire peers into his palm to find two yellow Starbursts.

That’s not what she was expecting.

“You want one?”

“I – okay, I guess.” He seems pretty gung-ho about it, so Claire decides, well, why not? It can’t hurt. “So _this_ is your secret weapon?”

“Absolutely. Yellow is the best Starburst, Claire,” he explains very seriously. “ _Everyone_ knows that.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

“Oh, I _know_ it’s true.”

She purses her lips, unwrapping the candy. “I’m pretty sure most people like the pink ones best.”

“Pink!” He sighs dramatically. “Aw, Claire. Pink is just so _pedestrian_.”

She shoots him a baleful look, even as they both chew on their Starbursts.

“See, it’s all about the sourness,” Brad explains, waving one hand as if he’s a gourmet chef in some fancy kitchen. “It’s bright, yeah? It just kinda wakes you up, like, _pow!_ – ya know?”

She doesn’t really know, but it doesn’t seem to matter. Brad just has so much _energy_. He goes at everything full-tilt, whether it’s spinning in his desk chair or tacking up a million pieces of paper to a board or explaining his favorite flavor of Starburst. The radius extending between his desk and his murderboard encompasses more chaos than the entire computer crime analysis division combined.

But Claire thinks, despite what she might have expected, she actually likes it. So far, anyway.

After their “power break” (Brad’s term for these few pensive minutes chewing on lemon Starbursts), they turn their attention back to the board, leaning back against his desk, side by side. Claire tilts her head, scanning a few of the evidence photos. Something’s off. She can’t quite put her finger on it, but –

Wait.

 _Wait_.

“Brad. Hang on.” She walks up to the board, staring intently, tracing careful fingers over two of the copied letters. “These were found at two separate crime scenes, right?” Brad nods. “They were written by the same person.”

His eyes light up, and he leaps to his feet to come look. “Holy _shit_ , Claire. I think you’re right.”

Closer scrutiny reveals that sure enough, the handwriting looks distinctive, even though the two notes were written with different pens. They’ll need a handwriting analyst to verify it for sure, but Claire’s reasonably certain that she got it right, and her interim partner looks delighted.

“Good _eye_ , Saffitz!” He digs through his desk drawer again. “That deserves a reward.”

He hands her another yellow Starburst, which she accepts with a smile.

Apparently they really do work.

* * *

They pull a list of Rapoport’s former associates to talk to in person, so Brad grabs his keys as Claire pulls on her jacket. It’s field trip time.

When she follows Brad down to his unmarked and opens the passenger door, her eyes go wide. “What _happened?”_

Brad follows her eyes. “To what?”

“It’s a mess!” Her jaw drops. “Don’t you ever clean it?”

“I, uh – I need to. Sorry.”

He actually cleaned it two days ago, but as he looks over the bits of paper, the plastic bags, the pop can tabs, the dust and dirt, it occurs to him that it really wouldn’t _hurt_ to do a more thorough job.

* * *

Claire doesn’t say anything more about the state of the car, but when they’re done for the day, he catches her brushing herself off.

In deference to the woman who’s stuck as his partner for the time being, Brad finally tosses all the trash out of his car and wheedles the fleet mechanics into vacuuming it and hosing it down for him.

* * *

They spend a decent amount of the next day reviewing witness statements and trying to trace burner phones, and then finally they find a name.

Now they’re parked down the block from their target, watching a quiet street. According to Claire’s best estimates, there is about an eight percent chance they’ll see their guy tonight.

So she’s here in the passenger’s seat, drinking coffee at midnight, watching nothing happen.

“This your first stakeout?” he asks suddenly.

“No, but it’s been a long time.” She shrugs. “I mostly work with computers.”

“Ah, sure. You fancy smart types.”

It’s a tease, but there’s no sting in it, so she just rolls her eyes and goes back to her coffee and the excitement of watching no criminals walking in or out of the door down the block.

She’s sort of surprised that Brad’s handling this so well. He’s always so active, so energetic, always moving, but now they’re stuck in this car for hours, and he seems perfectly content to sit still.

Actually – now that she thinks about it, is that really a good thing?

“Don’t we –” she looks around, furrowing her brow. “Isn’t this kind of obvious? Don’t we stick out? We’re just sitting here.”

Brad turns to look at her, amused. “What, you think we need some elaborate cover story?”

Okay, when he says it like _that_ , it sounds paranoid, but – “Shouldn’t we be making out or something?”

“ _Excuse_ me, Saffitz.” He huffs. “I’m not that kinda girl.”

* * *

The very next night, Claire remembers exactly why _Ctrl+F_ is the best thing ever invented.

Stakeouts aren’t exciting, but digging through reams of old paper records is actually less exciting. By the time her eyes are going blurry from looking through records, Claire’s beginning to wonder if they can just arrest criminals for giving her a headache.

She sets down the latest file and digs her fingers into her temples with a groan.

“You okay?” Brad asks from across the desk, flipping idly through his own stack of files.

“If I have to read one more of those, I’m going to lose my mind.”

Brad looks down at his watch and shrugs, shutting the folder in front of him. “You know what? It’s time for a break. Let’s get you some food before you murder someone.”

She’s not going to argue.

So they order Thai food and camp out in the break room. Claire digs into her papaya salad like it’s life itself. At this point, it might be.

“You out of the murder zone, or should I still be careful?” Brad asks.

“You’re safe. For now.”

“Excellent.” He pulls out a few napkins and tosses about half of them towards her side of the break room table. “Jeez, everyone thinks you brains are so calm. Startin’ to wonder if you’re not secretly some kinda genius Hulk.”

Dinner is chill, just Thai food and bottled water from the vending machine. She has no idea how he still has so much energy, but Brad’s as animated now as he’s been all day.

He keeps her giggling hysterically with stories about when he was a kid, burning things and breaking things and the time his sister threw baby powder into his face.

Claire reaches for her water, shaking her head. “But she claimed it was an accident?”

“Oh, yeah! An ‘accident.’ Sure.” He makes exaggerated air quotes, rolling his eyes. “Said she _didn’t know it was open._ ”

“But – if it was closed, then why would she –”

“See? Exactly, thank you. Guilty as charged.” He slaps a hand down on the table. “Fuckin’ A. Had to wash my eyes out for half an hour, Claire!”

When she finds out he doesn’t drink coffee, Claire is stunned. Somehow she had just assumed he walked around in a constant caffeine buzz. “What? You mean _never?”_

“Nah!” He shrugs. “Just never need it, ya know?”

She shakes her head. “No. I don’t know.”

Brad tosses his empty pad thai container on the table and reaches for a napkin. “Hate to break it to you, but this is just how I am.”

* * *

After another hour of fruitless searching through files, Brad sets his hands on the desk. It’s a whole lot of nothing. Damn.

He looks up, about to tell his partner that they can probably declare this over for tonight, but when he sees her, he smiles. Claire’s chin is propped up on one hand, leaning on the desk, a highlighter falling out of her left hand as strands of her soft hair escape from her ponytail. Her eyes are shut.

Well, they’re like 70% shut. Her eyelashes are fluttering, like she’s trying not to sleep, but it’s obviously a losing battle. The poor woman is gone.

If it were anyone else, Brad would throw a paperclip or something. Instead, he lowers his voice. “Hey, Claire? Claire?”

Her eyes flutter open, and for a long second she looks around in adorable, sheepish confusion (and how is he suddenly realizing how long her eyelashes are?).

“Brad?”

“I think we better call it a night.” He leans back in his chair, wincing at the ache in his back. “May as well finish up tomorrow, yeah?”

She smiles wearily, rubbing her forehead. “Fine with me.”

“You okay?”

“I will be.” She yawns deeply. “Sorry I dozed off.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he tells her. “I was getting close to that myself.”

They take the elevator together, walking across the deserted lobby and waving to the officers on night duty, and finally step outside into the night air. It’s cool and fresh, and Brad can see the relief on Claire’s face.

“See ya tomorrow?” he offers, and she nods.

“Good night.”

* * *

The next morning, Claire walks in and hands him a little paper bag.

Brad frowns. “What’s this?”

She shrugs. “Open it.”

She looks utterly pleased with herself, so Brad decides to go with it. He opens it to find a little glass jar labeled _BRAD_ , filled with yellow Starbursts.

“Oh, hey! Oh man, Claire, this is _great_.” He turns it over, marveling at it. “How the hell did you find a jar that said my name? Ain’t a lot of Brad jars out there.”

“Actually, I made it.”

“You _made_ this?” Claire Saffitz actually took time out of her life to find a jar and _label_ it, just for him? “Did you – you didn’t dig through an entire thing of Starbursts just to find the yellow ones, did you?”

She’s all-out _blushing_ now, and yeah, she’s a cop, but it’s just so fucking _adorable_ he can’t handle it. “You don’t have to make a big deal out of it.”

So – yes, she did.

“Claire Saffitz, you’re officially the best partner ever.”

* * *

They’re in yet another bar, talking to yet another bartender, trying to get a list of receipts, and the kid is maybe twenty-one and he’s skinny and weedy and a little too hipster and Brad instinctively disapproves of him.

The kid looks thoroughly unimpressed when Brad flashes his badge – dumbass kid – but when _Claire_ flashes her badge, he perks right up. Well, well well. Amazing how a pretty woman changes a person’s attitude.

Claire must read it too. She unbuttons her jacket and leans forward on the bar just a little, giving the bartender a better view down the front of her shirt.

Except it also gives _Brad_ a view down the front of her shirt, and it’s a whole lot of milky pale skin and a hint of black lace and oh shit he is _not_ supposed to be staring at his partner this way.

He forces his eyes back up. _Front and center, Leone_.

Claire, oblivious to his struggles, keeps her eyes on the bartender, and she brings out the last of the big guns: the bedroom voice.

“You sure you can’t help us, Chad?”

Her voice low and throaty and _teasing_ , the kind of purr designed to fuel fantasies. Her fingers trace light, absent circles over the rich-grained wood counter, and _fuck_ if he’s not imagining that voice and those fingers in a much more private setting.

The kid’s cracking. “Look – I’m not supposed to –”

“It would really help us,” she says sweetly, still totally ignoring Brad. “Come on, you want to help out a friendly local cop, don’t you?”

The kid shrugs. “Not a lotta cops walk around lookin’ like you, lady.”

“You’re making me feel special,” she teases, twirling a lock of hair around her finger. “Look, it’s just a list of customers in that two-hour window. We’re only looking for one person. We won’t bother anybody else.”

The kid still hesitates, but finally shrugs. “Well, okay. If my manager’s pissed, he can deal with it.”

Brad holds his breath, but sure enough, the bartender goes to the computer and starts pulling up records. It’s just a minute later that he comes back and hands Claire a printout. “There you go.”

She flashes him a beaming smile, and Brad _hates_ it but he can’t keep his eyes off her. “Thanks, Chad.”

 _Chad_. This kid is such a fucking Chad.

“Anything else you need?” Chad says to Claire’s chest. “You, uh, wanna arrest me?”

“Why, did you do something bad?”

Chad grins. “Not yet. You got your cuffs?”

She shrugs carelessly. “Wouldn’t _you_ like to know.”

Brad decides maybe it’s time to make sure _Chad_ doesn’t get grabby. “Hey, bud. You hear anything else, you give us a call, okay?”

Chad looks distinctly unimpressed by the card Brad hands him. “Okay. Sure.”

“You have a good day now, ‘kay?”

Brad follows Claire out, and a look back over his shoulder shows him that Chad’s still watching her with undisguised interest.

As soon as they’re out of the bar and back on the sidewalk, Claire’s all business again. She buttons up her jacket and hands him the printout. “Okay. What’s next?”

Brad just stares at her for a long moment, then finally shakes his head, tucking the printout into his pocket. “What the hell was _that?”_

She shrugs. “He gave us the list.”

“Fucking _hell_.” Brad digs in his other pocket for his car keys. “Jeez, Saffitz, warn a guy.”

“What?”

“Just – ya know. With all the –” He gestures vaguely at her to demonstrate…whatever it is. “They teach you that in computer school?”

Claire sets her hands on her hips, watching him with a bemused expression. “Fine. Next time I’ll tell you it’s about to get PG-13, Mr. Homicide Detective.”

She heads for the shop next door to grab a quick coffee before they move on, leaving Brad standing beside the car.

 _(Where did_ that _come from?)_

He takes a deep breath and lets it out through his nose, trying very hard to ignore the blood that’s been heading south.

Because yeah, Claire’s pretty. He’s not blind. But seeing her suddenly turn into this lithe, sinuous, tempting woman who knows exactly what she’s doing caught him completely off-guard. Because he has the unshakeable feeling that it really _is_ her. That underneath all her brisk professional persona, Claire’s just as daring and confident and dangerous as she seems. And he sure as hell wasn’t ready for how much he _liked_ it.

Or how much he’s still thinking about it.

* * *

Claire stands perfectly still behind the surveillance van as Carla works the wire through her shirt, clipping the tiny receiver to her collar where it’s hard to see. Sohla hands over the hidden camera and Carla tucks it carefully through one of her buttonholes.

“There you go, hon.” Carla stands back and looks her over. “Looks good.”

“Thanks.”

Claire checks her handgun and tucks it carefully into her shoulder holster.

“Ready?”

She turns to find Brad standing on the curb, hands in his pockets.

“I think so,” she says, brushing her hands on her jeans. “Do you see my jacket?”

“Yeah – here, let me.” He plucks it off the floor of the van and holds it up, letting her slip her arms in. The jacket covers her holster, she knows, but she still looks down at herself.

“You can’t see my piece, can you?”

“Nope.” Brad shakes his head. “Ya look harmless, Saffitz.”

She smiles wryly. “That’s the idea.”

Claire runs a hand through her hair, checks her wire, checks her gun, checks her clothes on more time, and takes a deep breath. She’s ready. Everything’s fine.

But her partner’s still watching her with something in his eyes she can’t quite place. “Something wrong?”

He shuffles his feet, looking down, and finally sighs noisily. “I don’t _like_ it, Claire. Ain’t a good situation. You shouldn’t be walkin’ in there alone.”

Claire lets out a long breath. From anyone else, she might take it as a slight. But Brad’s never treated her as anything less than a fellow cop. “I’m _fine_ , Brad. Besides, I’m not alone. There are half a dozen other cops around.”

“I don’t want you being used as bait for some murderous asshole,” he says stubbornly. “Just askin’ for trouble.”

Claire smiles at him fondly. “What, are you worried about me?”

And he surprises her. Instead of grinning, shrugging, laughing it off, he meets her eyes with a steady, serious gaze, so clear and frank that it makes her catch her breath.

“Yeah, Claire. I am.”

It hits her harder than she’s prepared for. Brad’s so open, so big, so sincere, and it’s impossible to ignore; warmth floods her chest, prickling her skin.

“Brad.” She reaches for his hand, squeezing it with her smaller one, waiting for him to meet her eyes. “It’s gonna be fine, okay? I’ve got Hunzi and Kevin and Delany in there keeping an eye on me.”

Brad grumbles. “Still.”

“It’s going to be _fine_ ,” she tells him firmly. “And then I’m going to come back out and we’re going to go get pie. Okay?”

He hesitates, but nods slowly. “Okay.”

“Good.”

She pats his arm comfortingly and moves to pass him, go towards the command center.

“Hey Claire?” he calls after her.

“Yeah?”

“Be careful, ‘kay?”

She nods. “I will.”

* * *

Everything goes smoothly. Of course it does.

She walks back out, lets Carla take the recording equipment back, and goes straight to Brad, who’s still stubbornly sitting on the curb, looking antsy.

“You waitin’ to say ‘I told you so?’” he asks. His voice isn’t what it should be, though. It’s small. Quiet. The humor’s missing.

“No.” She folds her arms. “Do you want me to?”

Brad lets out a mirthless chuckle. “Nah.”

After a long moment, Claire sits beside him on the curb, wrapping her jacket tighter against the evening chill. “You know, you were right.” At his questioning look, she shrugs. “Computers are my specialty. This – this kind of old-school field work? It’s not my thing.”

“Claire –”

“I mean, I’m a quick learner,” she adds hastily, “and it’s not like this one was very complicated. But still. I just – this is your world, not mine.”

“ _Claire_.” He sets a hand on her arm to stop her stumbling over her words as she tries to qualify everything. “Claire Saffitz, you’re just about the fuckin’ smartest cop I’ve ever worked with, okay? And you know we were all new, right? My first undercover, I sneezed so hard I almost broke the fuckin’ microphone. Got my ass handed to me by the captain.”

She dissolves into giggles at that, leaning against his shoulder. “I can see it.”

“See, there you go.” He squeezes her arm, waiting for her to look up, meet his eyes. “Look, I know you keep feelin’ like you gotta prove yourself. But you don’t. You’re in a different department. But you’re still a cop. You’re still one of us. And you’re still a shit ton smarter than some big idiot like me.”

Her face softens at that, her cheeks pink, and she ducks her head shyly. “You’re not dumb, Brad.”

“Sometimes,” he concedes. “But whatever. I guess – fuckin’ A, how do I always get sidetracked like this? I guess my point is, I don’t _doubt_ you, y’know? I got total faith in you. I just don’t want you to get hurt, okay?”

She bumps his shoulder gently. “Hate to break in _another_ new partner, huh?”

“No,” he says simply. “I mean – I don’t want _you_ in danger.”

It feels too honest. Too loud. Too direct, here in the quiet evening, sitting on a curb on some nowhere street, and Brad wonders if it’s too much.

But instead of pulling away, Claire stands, zipping up her coat, and turns to him. “The diner down the street is still open. Do you want to go get pie?”

He nods. “Yeah.”

* * *

The next day, he walks into the bullpen to find Claire stealing a Starburst out of the jar on his desk.

“Whoa, whoa whoa _whoa!”_ Brad sputters. “What the hell is this?”

She freezes, looking up at him guiltily. “I wanted a Starburst.”

“Fuckin’ A, gonna have to call Robbery and tell ‘em to haul you off,” he sighs. “Computer whiz Claire Saffitz, busted for grand theft.”

“Grand _theft_ , would you –”

“ _Literally_ caught with her hand in the cookie jar.”

“It’s not a cookie jar.”

“No, it’s a _Brad_ jar. Which makes it a felony.”

Rick, who’s walking past with a cup of coffee, pauses beside the desk. “What’s going on here?”

Brad points at her with mock sternness. “Captain, this partner you gave me is stealing my Starbursts.”

“- which _I_ gave him,” Claire adds pointedly.

Rick sighs the deep, bone-tired, long-suffering sigh of a man who is watching two grown adults, ostensibly respected law enforcement officials, teasing each other over candy, and who is really just trying to drink his coffee. “As long as you solve this case, I don’t care.”

He goes into his office and shuts the door a little pointedly, and Brad looks back at Claire. “Give it back, thief.”

It’s definitely a childish response, but Claire bites off part of the one she’s unwrapped, holding up the remaining half. “Want it now?”

To her shock, he plucks it right out of her hand and pops it in his mouth. “ _Thank_ you.”

* * *

They get a tip from a former associate of Rapoport that there’s a specific thug who’ll be at a specific address at a specific time that evening, so they end up near the building, hovering on the sidewalk, trying very hard to look casual.

Brad seems perfectly at ease, but Claire’s not entirely sure how to pin down what “casual” means.

But she follows his lead, leaning back against the brick wall, chatting quietly about nothing as they take turns keeping an eye on the restaurant down the street where Rapoport’s known to launder money. They don’t seem to get any second looks from passersby, so Claire supposes they’re doing something right.

“How much longer, do you think?”

Brad checks his watch. “Let’s give it another ten, then check in with the uniforms.”

“Fine.” She scuffs the ground with one foot. “This is even weirder than being in the car. It feels so artificial.”

“Just gotta act natural, Claire!” He grins toothily. “Just be normal.”

“I’m way too analytical for that,” she admits.

One second, she’s tucking her phone into her pocket, shuffling her feet for warmth in the chill night air.

And then she feels Brad tense up beside her, hears him mutter _Shit, that’s Rapoport_. Sure enough, she sees the tall, silver-haired man across the street. Brad’s right. If he realizes he’s being watched, he’ll close up shop and have plenty of time to destroy evidence, and that’s months of careful surveillance, down the drain.

Before she can react, Brad’s hands are on her hips and suddenly he’s lifting her up like she weighs nothing, setting her on the windowsill.

There’s just a moment – she catches her breath, because she’s suddenly right at eye level with him and it’s mesmerizing, how blue his eyes are – and his hands are tight on her waist.

“Trust me?” he murmurs, and she can only nod slightly, catching her breath, before he leans in to kiss her.

It’s so fast.

All it takes is one touch, the split second she feels his lips on hers, and then his tongue is in her mouth and he’s sliding one big hand into her hair. She lets out a soft, helpless whimper in the back of her throat that seems to ignite something in him, because his grip on her tightens and he bites at her lower lip, soothing the sting with his tongue. And she doesn’t _mean_ to tighten her legs around his waist. She just…can’t help it. It draws him even closer, and he lets out a groan into her mouth.

She feels out of control. She feels feverish and desperate and _wanting_. The weight pressed up tight between her thighs is unmistakeable, and she shivers, because it’s clearly, well, _serious_ for him.

Adrenaline bubbles up in her veins, heady and hot and mingled with the sharp ache of arousal, and when she buries her fingers in his curls, dragging her nails through the short hairs at the nape of his neck, she feels the rumble of the groan echo through his chest as his hips press roughly against her.

(She’s vaguely aware of people walking past, and her heart pounds a hectic, ragged beat in her chest, but nothing happens, and he just keeps kissing her and she just keeps kissing him back.)

He finally pulls his mouth away with an audible _pop_ , breathing raggedly, his fists clenched beside her as if he’s trying desperately to keep himself from touching her again.

“Rapoport –” he chokes out, his breath hot and harsh against her neck. “Still there? You see him?”

Claire shudders, because his beard is scratchy against her skin and it feels wanton and rough and _wrong_.

“Gone,” she manages. “He’s gone.”

It’s like a bucket of cold water, the realization that _they can stop now_.

He steps back, letting her hop off the windowsill back to the ground, and if it feels like her legs are just a little wobbly, that’s definitely just a very professional response.

* * *

That night, Brad gets home and sighs, flopping onto the couch, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes and rubbing vigorously, as if he can somehow scrub away the sight of his partner, her lips soft and swollen from kissing him, a pink flush spread across her cheeks, peppered down her collarbone, her eyes soft and dark and tempting.

It’s very possibly the stupidest thing he’s ever done.

He just hopes he hasn’t ruined everything.

* * *

Claire walks into the bullpen the next morning absolutely determined to keep it together. She is a police officer, an objective, professional woman, a grown adult.

But she’s also the woman who made out with Brad Leone last night, and right now he’s across the room, oblivious to her presence.

She’s blushing, she knows – he skin is so pale, there’s just no way to hide it – and she takes refuge behind her coffee cup for just a moment.

Brad reaches for a binder way up on one of the old metal shelving units, his arms on display, and her mouth goes dry, because now she knows exactly how strong those arms are. He lifted her up like she weighed nothing.

And suddenly she has a _very_ vivid image of how he could use that strength in…other situations.

She takes another sip of iced coffee and tells herself to quit stalling already.

She walks up to her chair by his desk, clearing her throat. “Morning.”

Brad freezes, turning around, and is it her imagination, or are his ears just a little bit red?

“Morning.”

Claire tugs off her jacket, sets her purse aside, and takes a deep breath. “So what did Hunzi and Kevin get?”

He looks at her for a long moment, and she holds her breath, but then he nods, very slight, and sits back in his own chair.

“Well, here’s what they said.”

He starts walking her through the uniforms’ reports, and if not for the occasional look she can’t resist sneaking at his mouth, Claire could even convince _herself_ that nothing happened.

* * *

Alex Delany’s a brand-new detective, and he’s a little shit, but Brad can’t really say he’s a bad guy.

When Delany stops by his desk to invite the two of them to go for drinks with a few others from Homicide, Claire’s eyes light up, and Brad finds himself saying “Sure, yeah, bud,” before he remembers that Delany’s idea of “a few drinks” is several gallons, because apparently Delany never gets hungover. But Claire’s so obviously excited at being accepted into the group that he can’t bring himself to resent it.

He _really_ doesn’t mind when she ends up tucked against his side in the booth at the end of whatever bar Delany’s found – seriously, when does the kid find time to unearth all these little places he knows about?

The beer’s good, the music’s pretty solid, Delany orders appetizers for everyone, and Hunzi and Kevin are both fun guys to hang out with. All in all, it’s a good evening. And Claire’s been looking tired, so it’s nice to see her relax a little.

At one point, she leans in towards Brad, murmuring into his ear. “Is Delany always like this?”

Brad absolutely does not get a sudden shock from the heat of her breath on his skin. He _doesn’t_. “Yeah, in Delany terms this is pretty normal.”

She smiles up at him, that soft, fond smile as she gazes up through her lashes, and the tactile memory hits him so hard that he can’t hide it for a moment. He _remembers_ her mouth, remembers the hitch of her breath when he lifted her up, the soft sigh she let out against his lips.

He looks away, reaches for his beer. Because this is the last time he’s going to think about that. Ever.

Delany’s in his element. He’s simultaneously flirting with every woman in a fifteen-foot radius, striking out again and again, and honestly, it’s better than TV.

After he gets told to buzz off one more time by a pair of blondes in business suits, Delany settles back into the booth beside his colleagues. “Man, it’s just not my night.”

Claire rolls her eyes. “Is this your normal strategy? Just throwing yourself at any woman you see?”

Delany huffs, taking a long sip of his whiskey. “Well jeez, when you put it like _that_ –”

“Pretty fuckin’ pathetic,” Kevin cuts in.

“Hey, fuck off.” Delany scowls at him. “I don’t _always_ strike out.”

“Oh yeah, sure,” Hunzi laughs. “99% isn’t _always_.”

“You can also fuck off,” Delany informs him. “I’ll have you know I’m irresistible to women.”

Brad laugh at that, leaning back against the seat. “Oh, _sure_ you are. Yeah.”

“Hey, Claire’s a woman,” Kevin suddenly points out.

Brad whistles. “ _Wow_ , Kev. Brains like that, no wonder you’re a cop.”

“No, no.” Kevin scowls at him. “I mean she’s a woman, yeah? So let’s ask her. Claire, is Delany irresistible?”

“I’m resisting without any problems,” she assures him.

“Well, _that’s_ just because I haven’t turned on my full charm,” Delany protests.

Claire makes a face, shrinking back slightly against Brad (who absolutely does not notice it). “I don’t think I want to know what that means.”

“You sure it’s not working on you?” He fixes her with a slow, lazy grin, leaning over the table. “C’mon, Claire. It’s okay to be dazzled.”

“Please stop.”

“Aw, c’mon, _Claire –_ ”

She sighs. “Delany, just go find a bachelorette party and ask who wants a mustache ride.”

She slides out of the booth (her thigh presses against Brad’s, and he absolutely does not enjoy it) and heads for the bar, leaving Hunzi and Kevin gaping like she’s their new hero.

Delany thinks for a long moment.

“You know, that’s actually not a bad idea.”

* * *

On Monday morning, Delany walks into Homicide whistling. “Hey, Claire!”

She looks up, startled. “Hi.”

“I need to thank you.”

“For what?”

He grins.

“Turns out, mustache rides are pretty popular.”

* * *

After a few weeks in Homicide, it’s an odd feeling for Claire to take the elevator back up to _her_ floor.

Computer crimes is a quiet department, as usual. Priya waves from her desk as Claire grabs a few things from her own desk. Chris is in his office, so she leans in to say hello.

“Claire? Wow. Kind of early for you.” Chris leans back in his chair. “How’s the case been?”

“Good.” She nods slowly. “I think we’re close.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Chris grins. “So, uh. How is working with Brad Leone?”

“Brad?” Claire opens her mouth, shuts it, opens it again. “He’s, uh. He’s great. But he’s kind of a handful.”

“Yeah, that’s what I hear.”

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, he’s a great cop,” she assures him. “Very smart, very instinctive. But he’s just so – _energetic_. All the time. And it’s a lot to get used to.”

Chris laughs at that. “Wow, that’s got to be hell for you.”

Claire stops short.

Because Chris _should_ be right.

Except –

“Honestly? It’s been great.” She doesn’t have words for it. She’s pretty sure there are no words for Brad Leone. “I don’t mind. He’s fun to work with.”

She thinks about mentioning the Starbursts, late night file review over Thai food, the quick grins and easy laughter and boundless enthusiasm. And as tired as she is, trekking all the way across Manhattan and back to track down leads that are sometimes useless, Claire can honestly say she’s enjoying this more than she can ever remember enjoying her work.

She could talk about kissing him, but she doesn’t think about that. Ever.

And she doesn’t want Chris to get the wrong idea, after all. If she says all these things, he might think there’s something going on between them.

(There isn’t.)

So she goes back to the elevator and presses the button for Homicide without telling Chris what she’s really thinking: _Brad’s the best_.

* * *

It happens so fast.

Claire’s in the middle of the room, eyes on their primary target. He can see her carefully unsnap her holster. She’s focused, her moves careful and controlled.

But Brad’s the one who sees the last gangbanger raising his own weapon and point it at her.

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t think.

He grabs her arm and yanks hard, pulling her back. She stumbles, hand falling away from her holster. But before she can even open her mouth to protest, there’s a deafening _bang_ , and searing pain burns through his abdomen.

The bar erupts.

Uniformed cops swarm in, the gangbangers are subdued, and in the midst of the chaos, Brad crumples to the ground, clutching his stomach as hot blood wells up under his hand.

“ _Brad!”_

He’s getting dizzy, but he hears her voice, bright and terrified through the din. Holy _shit_ it hurts it hurts it hurts –

Everything’s bright and loud and his vision is going blurry, so he shuts his eyes, just trying to breathe.

“It’s okay, Brad. It’s okay.” She sounds scared. “Just stay with me, okay? Come on.”

Her hands are warm and gentle on his face, and he shuts everything else out. Just her hands, her voice, pushing back against the searing, burning pain, even as everything goes dark.

* * *

Brad wakes up in the hospital. Everything’s fuzzy, soft, like his brain is just a little out of focus, and he can feel sleep pressing down like a weight on his chest, heavy and thick. Pain is there, but it’s hovering, the haze of medication dissolving it into something confusing.

His mouth is too thick and clumsy to talk, so he blinks a few times, but hears someone’s voice, unfamiliar but calm and warm, as he drifts back off.

 _You did great in surgery, Detective. Just relax. You need your rest_.

* * *

Rick brings a huge card signed by what seems like everyone in a three-block radius of the station house.

Brad’s never going to admit how long he searches for one particular signature.

Sure enough, it’s tucked in one corner, her handwriting tiny and tidy and careful, and he stares for a long moment at thirteen letters, willing them to inform the universe that he really, really, _really_ needs to see her.

* * *

His primary nurse’s name is Molly. He likes Molly. She’s smart and brisk and gives absolutely zero fucks, which he has to respect.

“You’re a lucky man, Detective,” she tells him. “Any further in, and it might have done some serious damage. As it is, you’re going to have a very impressive scar.”

“Oh, great. Just what I wanted.” He winces as she re-wraps the bandage. “Jeez, Molly. don’t be too gentle or anything.”

“Here to fix you, buddy. Not to hold your hand.” She tucks the end in, eyes it carefully, and nods, satisfied. “It’s looking good. Nice and clean, healing well. You’ll be out of here soon.”

“Oh, thank _God_.”

“Wow,” she sighs. “I see how it is.”

“Oh, no, Molly, you’re great. I just –” he shrugs, looking around the bland room filled with beeping monitors. “I just want to see my own bed again. And drink a beer. And holy _shit_ , this food is bad.”

“You’re not wrong about the food,” she concedes, reaching for his chart.

She runs through his vitals, beaming as she checks results. He’s in good shape; the surgeons’ reports were all positive, and despite the boring food, he’s doing very well.

Molly’s just finishing up with him when there’s a tap at the door, and Delany walks in. “Hey, Leone! How are you feeling?”

“Could be worse, bud.”

Delany offers to run down to the cafeteria to grab him some food, and as he leaves, Molly turns to Brad with a bemused expression. “Friend of yours?”

“Colleague, why?”

“I’ve seen him before.” She grins. “Last weekend. I was out getting a drink with my friends, and he actually walked up to our table and asked if I wanted a mustache ride.”

“Holy _shit_.” Brad gapes. “I can’t believe he’s still using that line. What’d you say?”

“I told him to fuck right off.”

* * *

The next day, Molly makes her rounds again to check his vitals. Brad grins at her, but finds himself staring at the door. Probably more than he should.

“Something wrong?” She cocks her head. “You seem kind of distracted.”

“I was – I dunno.” He runs his hands through his hair. “My partner hasn’t come by.”

Molly cocks an eyebrow at him even as she flips through his chart, scribbling something down. “Are you expecting him?”

“Her, actually. Claire. I – I don’t know. It’s not like she _has_ to.”

(But – Rick’s been by. Kevin and Hunzi. Even his _sister_ made the trek to come visit him yesterday. And he and Claire have spent all day, every day together for so long now that it just feels _wrong_ not to look over his shoulder and see her smiling up at him.)

“Is there some reason she wouldn’t come by?”

“She was there when I got shot.” He shakes his head at the memory. Her hands on his face are just about the only thing he remembers with any clarity. “She, uh, signed that card, but I haven’t talked to her.”

“Well, I don’t know her, so I can’t help much there,” Molly tells him, “but if she saw it happen – she’d be pretty freaked out, wouldn’t she?”

Brad nods slowly. He remembers the panic in her voice.

“Maybe just – give her a break, huh?” She squeezes his shoulder. “When something like this happens, it’s scary for everyone. And a lot of people have a tough time processing it, especially when it’s someone close to them.”

It makes sense. Sure. No one likes hospitals, right? Hospitals are the worst. Maybe that’s why.

He nods slowly. “Thanks.”

“What if it was the other way? What if _she_ got hurt, and you had to watch?”

Brad freezes, his whole body tensing up. Because that was his worst nightmare. That’s what he had to stop. “I couldn’t bear it.”

“Probably no different for her,” Molly says gently. “But you’ll see her again, and it’s going to be fine.”

* * *

Molly must be psychic.

Or maybe she’s all-powerful.

Either way, the next day, Brad’s finishing getting dressed, waiting for his final discharge papers, when he hears footsteps stop outside his room.

He looks up to find his (interim) partner standing in the doorway, arms folded, all 5’4” of her radiating with uncomfortable energy.

He quickly tugs on his sweatshirt. “Jeez, a little privacy, Saffitz?”

“What the _hell_ were you thinking?”

He lets out a soft huff. _There’s_ the Claire Saffitz he’s used to. “Don’t go spouting fountains on me now.”

“Brad, you got _shot_.” She says it almost accusingly, and he has the oddest feeling that she expects him to apologize.

“Yeah, I did.” He pushes off the bed, standing at his full height, and takes a step towards her. “You know where it hit me, Claire?" He touches the bandage. “Right there. Where would that’ve hit you?”

She follows his gaze, looking down to see that it’s exactly the height where it would have hit her square in the chest, and he sees the moment it clicks, her face going pale. “Brad –”

“He was aimin’ for you, Claire.” He shakes his head. “I’m not sorry.”

This feels wrong, this stricken look on her face. It’s not what he wanted. But he just doesn’t know how else to explain to her that her getting shot was just never an option, no matter what he had to do to stop it.

She’s out the door and gone before he can stop her, and Brad sighs, dropping his head into his hands.

 _That didn’t go well_.

* * *

It’s a relief to get home.

Brad calls his mom to let her know he’s fine, bakes a frozen pizza for dinner, settles on his couch, takes his medication at exactly the right time, and turns on a baseball game.

He keeps his phone handy, but he doesn’t get any text messages.

From anyone, not just…one particular person.

* * *

A few days later, after one last physical check and the mandatory after-action counseling, Brad’s settled at the bar, grinning as his fellow cops clap him on the shoulder. The attention’s a little much, frankly. Luckily, even a “heroic” asshole like him is less interesting than booze, so he has the feeling this’ll wear off before the night’s over.

(And he’s heard that Rapoport’s in custody and the DA’s sinking his teeth into the case, so like is pretty fuckin’ good.)

It’s nice to be off the strong meds. He orders a good stout beer and decides he’s going to enjoy it. Rick’s cleared him to come back in next week; four days on desk duty, one last signature from the psych rep, and he’s back on regular duty.

Delany swings by to congratulate him on successfully not dying, and Brad grins. Delany might be a little shit, but he genuinely likes the kid. “Thanks, bud.”

“Have you, ah, talked to Claire?”

Brad absolutely does _not_ stall by taking a long drink of his beer. He just…takes a long drink of his beer. “Uh – not – not today. Why?”

“Oh, no reason.” Delany shrugs. “Hunzi said he wasn’t sure if she was coming tonight or not.”

“Oh.”

Delany wanders off, Rick comes to shake his hand, then Kevin and Hunzi, and even Sohla and Carla from tech. He gets plenty of praise, which he shrugs off as best he can.

But then he hears a soft murmur, and when he turns, he sees _her_.

Claire pauses in the doorway, looking around hesitantly. She looks _soft_ , somehow – her hair loose, tumbled around her shoulders, wearing some pretty, soft blouse. She looks girlish and sweet and it makes his chest ache.

Brad stares down at his near-empty glass, fully aware that his ears are embarrassingly red.

Because it’s never _been_ like this. He’s never felt the entire room light up when one person walks in. Fuckin’ hell, it’s like being a teenager. He just can’t help himself.

But he still remembers that brittle anger from the hospital, and it still makes his stomach drop, even though it was painfully obvious just how scared she was.

How’d it get like this, anyway? A month ago, csaffitz was just the person upstairs he emailed for access to digital evidence. And now he can’t imagine going a whole day without her smile, her eyebrow quirks, even her exasperated groans when she’s out of ideas and she drops her head onto his desk, her hair spilling around her.

(He tells himself to stop bringing up the phantom warmth of her mouth on his, the desperate, frantic kiss they shouldn’t have had, but there’s just no possible way to stop reliving it.)

And he just can’t bring himself to ignore how _pretty_ she is.

She smiles at the other cops, accepts a side-hug from Delany, but finally she comes over, leaning against the bar beside him.

“Hey.”

It’s one word, but it’s such a relief. Brad nudges her shoulder with his own. Even sitting down, he’s basically her same height. “Hey, you.”

“Can I buy you a drink?”

He shrugs. He really hopes it looks more casual than he feels. “If you want.”

* * *

The bar suddenly feels a little too crowded and noisy, now that there’s just one person he wants to talk to.

So Claire grabs their drinks and he follows her to a smaller booth, tucked back into the corner. He slides in across from her as she hands him his beer. The lamp hanging over the table throws warm golden light around them, and her eyes are so big and dark and luminous, and it hits him like a fist, just how fucking _smitten_ he is with her.

(He shouldn’t know how soft her lips are. But he does.)

She made the first move here, so Brad decides to let her lead. He takes a long sip of his beer, watching her trace the rim of her glass, like she’s trying to work up the nerve to say something.

Finally, she takes a tentative drink, sets her glass back down, and folds her arms, looking up at him resolutely. “How are you?”

It’s a slow start, but he’ll take it. “Not too bad. You?”

“Can’t complain.”

Well, that was illuminating.

Brad thinks it could be worse, after all – she’s not yelling at him for getting hurt – so he goes back to his beer, trying to ignore the creeping worry because they used to talk about everything, all the time, but now they’re staring blankly at each other across a table, and when did _that_ happen?

Claire must have made the same realization, because she takes the kind of long drink that reads as _courage_ and takes a deep breath. “You know, I never thanked you. For saving my life.”

“Aw, Claire –”

“Stop acting like it was nothing, okay?” Her voice is sharper than he’s used to. “You took a bullet for me, Brad. You saved my life.”

It’s not that it’s nothing, he thinks. But he’s not sure how to explain it to her, that the choice wasn’t even a conscious one. He didn’t think. He knew she was in danger, and he had to stop it. It was pure instinct, embedded deep inside him so thoroughly it’s just like breathing now.

It’s the creeping, scary realization that the two of them have been slowly moving towards that line between a professional partnership and…something else. Something different.

And maybe it _is_ dangerous, just how easy it was to put himself in the line of fire.

He has nothing but honesty to offer at the moment. “I just couldn’t – I couldn’t let you get hurt, Claire. Would’ve torn me up.”

She folds her arms, looking up at him like she’s trying to figure out exactly what she wants to say. He can see the wheels turning, and not for the first time, Brad wishes he could hear exactly what she’s thinking right now.

“I’m sorry. About – before.” She takes a deep breath, shaking her head like she’s not getting it right. “At the hospital. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” It is. Molly’s words ring through his mind – _What if she got hurt, and you had to watch?_ – and he knows perfectly well that he would have been a mess.

And they’re here now, and they’re talking, and that’s what matters, right?

“I’d never seen anyone get shot before,” she says finally. “And when I saw you lying there, I just – I was _so_ scared.”

“I know.” He understands, all too well. The minute he saw that guy point a gun at Claire, his blood went ice-cold. “To be honest, I felt guilty. You got dragged into this whole thing because of me. It was my case, and I gave the okay for you to join.”

“Brad –”

“God, if you’d been shot because of _me_ –” He shakes his head, because he can’t even finish the sentence.

(He’s had that nightmare, since then. Woke up in a cold sweat, on the verge of calling her just to hear her voice.)

“I agreed to do this, Brad. I knew what I was getting myself into.” Her voice is clear and firm. “Please don’t blame yourself.”

That’s gonna be hard to stop, so he just gives her a half smile. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

“Likewise.”

It feels okay. And for the first time since he saw the barrel of a gun pointed at her heart, Brad feels that icy weight in his chest dissolve a little.

Because they’re fine.

* * *

He doesn’t know how long they’ve been sitting there, ignoring everyone else, when Claire finally glances at her phone and sighs. “I really should get going. I didn’t realize it was so late.”

“Working tomorrow?”

“Just the afternoon shift.” Claire smiles at him wistfully. “Back to computers, though. Back to my normal life.”

It’s not like he didn’t know; Rick made it abundantly clear that Claire was on loan from her department for one case. And besides, she’s still a cop, isn’t she? She literally works three floors up. It’s not like he won’t still see her.

The errant thought _But how long were we both there before I ever saw her?_ crosses his mind, and it’s a sobering one. Ships passing in the night. He might never have met her at all. Never, ever attached a face to the email address.

“Yeah, well.” He clears his throat, looking down at the polished wood tabletop. “Morocco’s gonna be needing you back.”

“Hey.” Her hand, small and gentle, covers his, and he looks up to find her watching him with the warmest, most earnest gaze, the one that makes his heart just melt away into a puddle in his ribcage. “I’m going to miss working with you, okay? And – maybe – maybe we can still get lunch sometimes?”

At this point, Brad would swim across the Hudson to have lunch with her; three floors isn’t too much. Even without the elevator. “We better.”

That earns him the beaming, mega-watt smile he’s desperate to see, the soft, warm mirth in her dark eyes.

* * *

He’s desperate for anything, even just a few more minutes, so he insists on walking her the few blocks to her apartment.

They walk down the street towards her place, their arms brushing against each other oh-so-casually. Brad’s content to just enjoy the silence, but as they reach the steps into her building, Claire stops, turning to face him as she worries her bottom lip between her teeth. “Thanks for walking me home.”

“Just call me Officer Friendly.”

That makes her laugh. “Brad, if anyone was born to be Officer Friendly, it’s you.”

She’s looking at him with that look he can’t quite figure out. It’s a soft sort of amused fondness, and her eyes are so bright that he’s not imagining it, is he? There’s something there.

She’s lingering, too. Standing there on the step, making no move to reach for her keys.

“I know all about that danger,” she says, brushing an errant strand of hair out of her face. “You save my life, I get a crush on you, like, I get it, you’re a hero. It’s natural. It happens all the time.”

His heart sinks for a long, terrifying moment, like a dizzying drop on a rollercoaster no one told him he was on.

_Is that all this is to her?_

But Claire’s not done. She fixes him with a determined look. “ _But_. Then I thought – I’m a cop too, right? So I’m pretty much a hero. So – you’re probably just as starstruck as me.”

His heart does a backflip in his chest, or something, something that makes him catch his breath because _is she really saying –_

“And – maybe I’m just imagining things, maybe you’re not –” she worries her bottom lip between her teeth, and it’s simultaneously hot and adorable and he’s _so_ in over his head with this woman – “but anyway, I just figured – maybe it’s okay? Maybe we’re even, like, they cancel each other out, so – _mmmph_.”

He’s kissing her before she can finish the sentence. Quick, soft, searching.

When he pulls back, he’s watching her, his blue eyes so keen and bright that she catches her breath. “So, uh, we’re even?”

He _beams_ at her, his grin irresistible, and even as he’s leaning forward to kiss her again.

“You’re my hero,” he murmurs against her mouth.

* * *

It’s even more perfect than she remembered.

She’s standing up on the step, stretched up on her toes, and it’s just enough to reach his mouth. He puts one big hand on her waist, steadying her, and she sighs against his mouth.

Claire can feel the tension running through his body, the moment he tugs her closer, deepening the kiss. She can’t stop the soft moan that escapes her, and it’s _dizzying_ , her whole world reduced to the front step of her house, the metal railing under her hand, and the heat of his lips and tongue and his hands and just _everything_ about him.

He kisses her cheek, her jaw, tugs her hair aside to nuzzle at her throat. Claire shivers, clutching at handfuls of his shirt, and finally she can’t stop herself from confessing. “When – when we kissed – before –”

“ _God_ , Claire, I tried to stop thinking about it, I tried, I just – I couldn’t stop,” he confesses breathlessly, stealing soft kisses between words. “Losing my fucking _mind_ , you just make me so crazy.”

They really should stop kissing. Out here, anyway. But she just can’t bring herself to pull away, and it can’t really hurt, can it? – so maybe just one more kiss. And then one more. And then –

“Hey, get a room, you guys.”

They freeze, pulling apart, to find Hunzi laughing at them as he and Kevin walk past. Kevin just waves.

Oh. Right.

Brad looks down at her in confusion, and Claire smiles sheepishly. “Did I mention Hunzi and Kevin live on the next block?”

“Oh, really.”

“Yeah, I see them all the time.”

“Huh.” He brushes her hair behind her ear. “Well, I guess that cat’s out of the bag.”

He doesn’t seem bothered, and that’s a relief. Claire runs one hand gently over the line of his shoulder, smoothing the soft, worn flannel shirt. “You know, technically we’re not partners anymore.”

“No, we’re not,” he agrees.

“So, uh – do you wanna come up?”

Brad catches her hand in his, turning it over, pressing a soft kiss to her palm.

“Lead the way.”

* * *

_one week later_

Claire’s desk is always immaculate. Her computer monitor is tidy, there’s a bottle of spray cleaner and a soft cloth inside her top drawer, and her post-it notes and pencil cup are set at perfect right angles to her keyboard.

Now, there’s also a tiny, handcrafted wooden box full of yellow Starbursts tucked beside her pencil cup, labeled _CLAIRE_ with slightly crooked letters. Taped to the lid is a little handwritten note that she refuses to get rid of, even though the ink is slightly smeared: _come steal mine when you run out – B_


End file.
